After two weeks,
The days that followed the confrontation with her father had settled into a fragile, uneasy quiet—the kind that felt more like held breath than peace.
Eiravelle moved through the Arthion mansion like a ghost, keeping to the shadowed corridors and seldom-used passageways, her presence was so subtle that even the servants sometimes forgot she existed.
She had learned, over the years of her silent exile, how to become invisible when necessary, how to fold herself into the background until she was nothing more than a whisper of movement at the edge of one’s vision.
For the entire week, she had spoken scarcely a dozen words. Not to her father, whose gaze she could not bear to meet—for she knew what she would find there, that same cold disappointment that had frozen her heart so many times before.
Not even her mother, whose pity had become a sharper weapon than any blade, for it cut deeper with every gentle touch and sad smile.
And not everyone inside this place.
Only Arielle remained exempt from Eiravelle’s self-imposed silence. When her elder sister visited, Eiravelle would lift her eyes and offer a small, fragile smile—the kind that barely touched her lips but held all the warmth her wounded heart could still produce.
Arielle never pressed her to speak more than she wished, never demanded explanations or apologies. She simply sat beside her all the time, her presence was an anchor in the storm of Eiravelle’s thoughts, and spoke of trivial things—the weather, the flowers, the gossip from court that meant nothing and everything all at once.
It was in that garden, near Arielle’s private wing, that Eiravelle had taken refuge for most of the week.
The grounds there were secluded, shielded from the main mansion by a wall of ancient oaks and carefully cultivated hedges. Few servants ventured this far, and even fewer members of the household had reason to wander these paths.
Here, Eiravelle could tend to the flowers in peace, her fingers were sinking into the rich earth, her mind was silencing as she focused on the simple, honest work of nurturing life from the soil.
The garden was her sanctuary, the only place in the vast Arthion estate where she felt she truly belonged.
She had planted most of the flowers herself over the years—roses of deep crimson and pale pink, lavender that swayed gently in the breeze, and night-blooming jasmine that filled the evening air with its intoxicating fragrance.
Each bloom was a small victory, a testament to her patience and care. Each new shoot that pushed through the soil was a promise that beauty could still emerge from darkness.
Today, the sun hung low in the sky, painting the garden in shades of gold and amber. Eiravelle knelt among her flowers, her simple linen dress was smudged with dirt, her hair was escaping from its loose braid in soft, unruly tendrils.
She had been working for hours, her hands felt raw from pulling weeds and turning soil, but there was a contentment in her chest that she had not felt in days.
A particular rose bush had caught her attention earlier that morning. The blooms were unusual, a deep purple so dark they appeared almost black in certain lights, with petals that shimmered like velvet.
She had been coaxing this bush to flower for nearly three years, and today, finally, the first perfect bloom had opened.
Eiravelle reached out with trembling fingers, her heart swelled with joy. The petals were soft beneath her touch, cool and smooth like silk.
A smile spread across her face, the first genuine smile she had worn in what felt like an eternity. She leaned closer, inhaling the subtle, spicy fragrance that only seemed to emerge in the evening hours.
"I did it," she whispered to herself, her voice was barely audible above the rustle of leaves. "After all this time, you finally bloomed."
She was about to stroke the petals once more when the world suddenly shifted beneath her.
The colors of the garden blurred, the golden light faded to a dull, hazy grey. Eiravelle blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision, but the blur only deepened. Her head felt as though it were filled with cotton, heavy and muffled, and a strange, distant ringing began to echo in her ears.
"What—" she started, but the word died in her throat as a wave of dizziness crashed over her. She shook her head, trying to steady herself, but the motion only made the nausea worse. Her hands, still raised toward the rose, began to tremble uncontrollably.
The last thing she saw before the darkness claimed her was the perfect purple bloom, its velvet petals sway gently in the breeze, oblivious to her distress.
She tried to rise, to find her feet, but her legs refused to obey. The ground rushed up to meet her, and she collapsed into the dirt with a soft thud, her cheek was pressing against the cool earth.
The scent of soil and crushed petals filled her nostrils, she gasped for breath, but her lungs felt as though they were filling with water. Each inhale was a struggle, each exhale was a wheeze that scraped against her throat.
"What’s happening to me?" She gasped, her voice was weak and trembling. She tried to reach for something that might anchor her to reality.
Her fingers closed around a handful of dirt and the stem of a nearby flower. She grasped at it desperately, but it was too fragile to support her weight, and the flower bent and broke beneath her grip.
"S-Sister..." The word came out as barely a whisper, a plea that faded into the air. Eiravelle’s eyes darted around the garden, searching for Arielle’s familiar form.
But her sister had left earlier that morning, called away by royal affairs that could not be postponed.
She was alone.
A sob caught in her throat, but there was no strength left to release it. Her body felt as though it were dissolving, piece by piece, and she could do nothing but lie there in the dirt, her fingers are still clutching the broken flower, and her vision faded to black.
A single tear slipped from her eye, tracing a path through the soil that clung to her cheek. It was the last tear she would shed for a long time.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and she knew no more.
Then suddenly, the first maid to discover her was young—barely a century old, with wide, frightened eyes and a voice that had not yet learned to hide fear.
She had only been working in the Arthion mansion for a few months, a recent hire from the outer districts of beastmen who had been grateful for any position that offered food and shelter.
She had been tasked with bringing fresh linens to Arielle’s wing, a simple errand that should have taken no more than a few minutes.
But as she rounded the corner of the garden path, her arms were full of folded sheets, she saw something that made her freeze in her tracks.
The youngest daughter of House Arthion lay crumpled on the ground, her face was half-buried in the dirt, and her body was unnaturally still.
For a moment, Mira could not process what she was seeing. It looked almost as though the young lady had simply fallen asleep among the flowers—but no, there was something wrong, something deeply, terribly wrong.
The sheets slipped from the young maid’s arms and fell to the ground, forgotten. A scream tore from her throat, high and piercing, echoing through the silent gardens. "Help! Someone, please help!"
Her cries drew the attention of a more experienced maid—a stern-faced woman named Gertrude who had served the Arthion family for over three centuries.
Gertrude moved with practiced efficiency, her face was pale but her hands were steady as she rushed to Eiravelle’s side and knelt in the dirt beside her.
Carefully, gently, Gertrude gathered the unconscious girl into her arms, cradling her against her chest. Eiravelle’s head lolled limply against the older woman’s shoulder, her skin was so pale it was almost translucent, her lips were tinged with blue.
The dirt and crushed petals clung to her face and hair, and her breath was so shallow that Gertrude could barely feel it against her cheek.
Her hands trembled slightly, reached for Eiravelle’s wrist and searched for a pulse. The beat she found was weak, irregular—faint and fluttering, like the wings of a dying moth.
"My goodness," Gertrude murmured, her voice was tight with barely contained alarm. "Her pulse is so weak, I can barely feel it. We need to act quickly."
The young maid was still standing frozen with her hands clasped over her mouth, whimpered. "What should we do? What should we do?" Her voice was rising in panic, her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps.
Gertrude’s voice cut through the younger maid’s hysteria with sharp authority. "Pull yourself together, girl. Hysteria will not help her." She adjusted her grip on Eiravelle, careful to support the girl’s head. "Go—now. Summon the physician immediately. And send word to the healers. The young lady needs more than a simple examination; her pulse is dangerously weak."
The young maid nodded frantically, her tears were streaming down her face. "Y-yes, of course. I’ll go at once!" She turned and ran, her footsteps echoed through the garden as she disappeared around the corner.
Gertrude remained where she was, cradling Eiravelle’s still form, her weathered face was etched with worry. She had watched this girl grow up, had seen her heart break and mend and break again.
She had held her when she cried, had comforted her when the rest of the household turned their backs. And now, to see her like this—so pale, so fragile, so close to slipping away—it felt like a knife twisting in her chest.
"Hang on, little one," Gertrude whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to Eiravelle’s forehead. "Help is coming. Just hold on a little longer."
***
In the Prime Minister’s imperial office, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The gathering of ministers had been convened with little notice, and the urgency in Arielle’s voice had been enough to make even the most senior advisors set aside their petty squabbles and attend.
The office itself was a grand space, befitting the head of the imperial council. Tall windows lined the walls, flooding the room with the golden light of the late afternoon sun.
Bookshelves rose to the ceiling, filled with ancient tomes and scrolls that held the accumulated knowledge of centuries. At the center of the room stood a long oak table, its surface was polished to a mirror shine, surrounded by high-backed chairs that had hosted generations of the most powerful figures in the Solkanaia divine realm.
Arielle stood at the head of the table, her presence was commanding the attention of every minister in the room. She was young for such a position—barely past her first millennium—but she had inherited her mother’s intelligence and her father’s strategic mind.
In the years since she had been appointed Prime Minister, she had proven herself to be a formidable leader, capable of navigating the treacherous waters of supernatural politics with a grace that belied her age.
Her silver hair was pulled back from her face in an elegant twist, and her robes of deep emerald silk flowed around her like water. Her eyes, the same shade of amber as her mother’s, swept across the gathered ministers with cold assessment.
"I assume everyone here knows why I have called this meeting," she said, her voice was quiet but carrying an edge that made even the most seasoned ministers shift uncomfortably in their seats.
Silence greeted her words. The ministers exchanged nervous glances, but no one dared to speak.
Arielle’s gaze settled on a specific figure near the far end of the table—an older woman with silver-streaked hair and a face lined with centuries of experience.
Minister Ven of Jurisdictional Affairs was one of the most senior members of the council, a female alpha. She was a force to be reckoned with, a woman who had weathered countless political storms and emerged unscathed.
But today, under Arielle’s steady gaze, Minister Ven looked almost... Nervous.
"In the northern zones," Arielle continued, her voice dripped with carefully controlled detachment, "the Haltus have invaded fifty of the Solkanaia villages. Fifty villages—destroyed, pillaged, or completely overrun. And none of you saw fit to inform me of such a massive breach?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Arielle’s eyes narrowed. "I want to know how this happened. How did an invasion of this scale go unnoticed by the very people tasked with monitoring the borders? How did fifty villages fall without a single report reaching my office until now?"
She let the question hang in the air, watching as the ministers squirmed under her scrutiny. Some studied their hands. Others stared fixedly at the table. Not a single one met her gaze.
"Especially you, Minister Ven," Arielle said, her voice dropped to a dangerous purr. "As the head of Jurisdictional Affairs, the border monitoring falls under your purview. I expect an explanation."
Minister Ven’s face flushed with color, a mixture of embarrassment and anger. Her hands, clasped on the table in front of her, tightened until her knuckles went white.
"Prime Minister, I assure you, we had no knowledge of this... This situation until very recently. The reports must have been delayed in transit, or—"
"Delayed?" Arielle interrupted, her voice was sharp. "Fifty villages, Minister Ven. Fifty. That is not a delay. That is a catastrophic failure. How do you propose we explain this to the families who lost their homes, their livelihoods, their loved ones?"
Minister Ven opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. She looked around the table, seeking support from her fellow ministers, but they all carefully avoided her gaze. She was on her own.
"Uhm... Errr..." she stammered, her confidence crumbling. "I—there must be an explanation. Perhaps the reports were intercepted, or—"
Arielle rolled her eyes, the gesture so dismissive that it was almost a physical blow. She turned away from Minister Ven, her gaze sweeping across the rest of the council. "Does anyone else have an explanation? Or are we all content to sit here in silence while our people suffer?"
The ministers exchanged glances but remained mute.
Arielle sighed, a sound filled with weariness and frustration. She had expected more from them—had hoped, naively perhaps, that they would have the courage to admit their failures and work together to address them. Instead, she was met with nothing but evasion and cowardice.
She was about to speak again when the door to the office burst open, and a figure strode in without an announcement.
Lord Zane was a tall, broad-shouldered Alpha with a young handsome face. He was the son of Lord Thane, a respected figure in the political landscape, and he had served as Arielle’s trusted advisor for many years.
His presence here, unannounced and clearly agitated, was enough to make the ministers straighten in their seats.
Zane placed his hand flat against his chest and bowed deeply. "Greetings, Prime Minister Arielle," he said, using the proper honorific title.
"Zane," Arielle acknowledged, her expression shifted from irritation to concern. "What brings you here? This meeting is not yet concluded."
Zane’s face was pale, and there was a tightness around his eyes that Arielle had rarely seen. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, and that hesitation was enough to set her heart racing.
"Lordess," he said, his voice was low and urgent. "I received a letter from the Arthion mansion a few moments ago. It was marked as private and urgent, specifically addressed to you. I did not open it, but the courier who delivered it was insistent that you receive it immediately."
He held out a sealed envelope, its wax was bearing the crest of the Arthion household. Arielle’s breath caught in her throat. A private, urgent message from her family—that could only mean one thing.
Her hands trembled slightly as she took the letter and broke the seal. Her eyes scanned the contents quickly, her face growing paler with each line she read.
It was from Gertrude, the head maid of the Arthion estate. The message was brief, written in a hurried hand that betrayed the writer’s distress:
"My Lordess, I implore you to return to the Arthion mansion with all haste. Your sister, Lady Eiravelle, has collapsed in the garden and is ill. Her pulse is weak, and she has not regained consciousness. The physician has been summoned, but we fear the worst. Please, Lordess—come quickly."
The letter slipped from Arielle’s fingers, fluttering to the ground like a wounded bird. For a moment, she could not move, could not breathe, and could not think. The words echoed in her mind, each one was a hammer blow against her heart.
Eiravelle had collapsed, and fell ill.
"Lordess?" Zane stepped forward, his brow furrowed with concern. "What does it say? Is everything all right?"
Arielle shook herself out of her stupor, her eyes snapping up to meet his. "Eiravelle," she said, her voice broke on the name. "My sister. She’s collapsed—she’s unconscious. I have to go."
Without waiting for a response, she turned and strode toward the door, and her robes flowed behind her. The ministers rose from their seats in confusion, calling out questions that she did not hear.
"Prime Minister! What about the meeting?"
"We haven’t concluded our discussion of the northern zones!"
"Lordess, please, we need direction!"
Arielle ignored them all. Her only thought was of Eiravelle—her fragile sister.
Zane hurried after her, his longer strides were catching up with her easily. "Lordess, let me accompany you. If there is anything I can do—"
"Did the messenger say anything else?" Arielle interrupted, her voice was rising with urgency as she rushed down the corridor. "Aside from Eiravelle fainting? Did it provide any details about her condition? What is the physician saying?"
Zane shook his head, struggling to match her pace. "Nothing else, my lordess. The letter was brief and focused only on the urgent nature of the situation. It was marked as immediately urgent, which suggests that the household is deeply concerned."
Arielle’s heart clenched painfully. For the Arthion household to send such a message—to interrupt her during an official meeting—the situation must be dire indeed.
She burst through the palace doors and into the courtyard, her eyes scanned for her horse. A stable boy scrambled to bring her mount forward, but she barely waited for the animal to be ready before she was swinging up into the saddle.
"I will return as soon as I am able," she called over her shoulder to Zane. "Inform the ministers that the meeting is adjourned until further notice. I will address the northern situation when I return."
"Lordess, wait—"
But Arielle was already gone, her horse leaped into the sky with a powerful surge of its wings. The wind whipped her hair around her face, and she leaned forward, urging the animal to greater speed.
Her mind was racing almost as fast as her mount. She thought of Eiravelle—her sweet, gentle sister who had always been so full of hope, even when the world had been cruel to her.
She thought of the past few weeks, the tension that had been simmering beneath the surface of the household, the cold looks and whispered insults that Eiravelle had endured in silence.
I should have been there, Arielle thought, her throat tightening. I should never have left her alone. I knew she was struggling, and I left anyway. What kind of sister am I?
The tears came then, hot and silent, streaming down her face and disappearing into the wind and she did not bother to wipe them away.
My sister has been under so much stress lately, she thought, trying to reassure herself. She’ll be fine. She has to be fine. It’s probably just exhaustion, or perhaps she hasn’t been eating properly. She’ll wake up, and she’ll be fine.
But even as she thought the words, she did not believe them. The urgency in Gertrude’s letter, the words of "being ill"—these were not the signs of simple exhaustion.
Please, she prayed to the divine spirits that watched over the Solkanaia realm. Please, let her be safe. I cannot lose her. She is the only light I have in this world. I cannot—I will not—lose her.